


cinnamon and winter roses

by KaleidoKai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 and 1, Arya’s POV, Cousin Incest, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 20:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13197603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaleidoKai/pseuds/KaleidoKai
Summary: Five times he called her beautiful, but it is in the silence of that final moment that she finds most meaningful.





	cinnamon and winter roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [museme87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/gifts).



> For the final part of my present to the wonderful museme87, based on her prompt:
> 
> “You look-“ / “Beautiful, I know. Can we move on?” 
> 
> If you’ve read interlunium, you’ll find similar themes across both fics. Consider them to be two sides of the same coin, if you will! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

i.

There wasn’t much Arya could remember from her first years fresh of this world, but she remembered this.

A halo of dangling winter roses dipped in silver hung delicately above her, the dying sunlight dancing on its surface making it sparkle like stars. She giggled as her hand stretched towards the heavens, hoping to grasp one between her chubby fingers. It twirled just beyond reach, crystals kissing her fingertips softly. She huffed in frustration as her hand grasped at empty air.

The sound of a door creaking open drew her attention away. Turning her head and peering through the bars of her crib, she made out a small figure creeping towards her. A bubble of hope rose in her chest, erupting in a series of squeals as her visitor tiptoed to bend over the edge of her crib, his face filling her vision.

“J-J-Jon!” Arya exclaimed happily, her tongue tangling in excitement as she reached for the dark-haired boy eagerly. He giggled and let her grab his hand to squeeze, just as precious as the glittering jewels above.

“How is my favourite girl?” Jon whispered to her with a grin and a wink, his grey eyes as bright as diamonds in the night. He tapped her nose with a finger, earning another fit of giggles.

She tried telling him about how Mother had sang a song to her earlier and how Father had tossed her in the air while she laughed so hard it hurt and how Robb tickled her where he knew she’d scream and Sansa had brushed her hair and how nice that felt -

-but all that came out was a series of babbles and aggressive hand-waving, with the occasional squeal of happiness. Despite the incoherent mumbles, Jon cocked his head and watched her intently, as if she were the most fascinating specimen he’d ever seen. She didn’t know how long she rambled for, but he never wavered. It was only when a yawn suddenly cut through her eloquent speech about Mother wrapping her in a white blanket instead of a grey one (she thought she might love the grey more!) that Jon finally chuckled quietly to himself and stroked the curls bouncing from her head.

“Looks like you’ve talked yourself out, little wolf,” he said gently, his voice soft as silk. The setting sun illuminated his pale face with red and gold like a candle’s kiss, and she reveled in the warmth of his glow. “I think it’s time to sleep.”

As if on cue, her eyelids began to droop and she offered no resistance when he tucked her deeper into the blanket and laid a kiss on her temple, light as rain in spring. Her eyes roved over the ceiling one last time, catching onto the twinkling silver of the mobile hanging above, spinning like snowflakes.

“Want,” she muttered, pointing at the suspended winter roses.

Jon glanced curiously at the petals. “You want the flowers?” he asked in confusion.

She nodded eagerly.

He gave her a small smile and reached up to detach a single rose. It sparkled between his fingers, somehow glowing brighter with his touch. He tucked it into her blanket, letting go once her small fingers grabbed it tightly. Her own star, a piece of the galaxy within her reach. She sighed happily.

Fingers played with her hair as the drowsiness returned, dragging her eyelids down. “You’re beautiful,” she heard Jon say in awe, his hand still tangled in her locks. She didn’t know what he was saying, but she’d certainly liked how he said it, and that was the final thought that swept Arya’s mind as sleep claimed her at last.

There wasn’t much Arya could remember from days long past, but she’d never forgotten this.

 

  
ii.

She should have known she could never hide from him.

Arya was sulking in an alcove along one of the emptier corridors of Winterfell when Jon found her. She’d been annoyed at first - she wanted to be alone, couldn’t he see? - but felt a wave of relief the moment he sat down next to her, his eyes wary with concern. There was something comforting about Jon Snow’s presence, something safe and welcoming, like a crackling fire in a warm room amidst a winter storm, the smell of cinnamon dwelling in the air like mist. It soothed some of the anger festering in her soul.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jon asked quietly, after several heartbeats.

“Not really,” she muttered stubbornly back. Tears pricked the edges of her eyes and she furiously bit her lip to force them back, through sheer willpower. She wouldn’t cry over Sansa and stupid Jeyne. Not again. Jon had told her they didn’t deserve her tears so she desperately wanted to show him that she had listened.

Wetness on her cheek betrayed her, which only made the tears flow faster.

“Hey now, what’s this?” Jon crooned beside her, his arm enveloping her in a hug. He reached up and wiped away the tracks on her cheeks with a finger. “Arya, will you please tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice growing heavy with worry. She hated hearing that. She never wanted to worry Jon, not over something like this.

He was still watching her, the intensity of his stare wearing away at her walls. With a sniffle, she let them crumble as she wrapped her arms around herself and said, “Sansa and Jeyne called me Horseface again. They said no boy would ever want someone that looked like me.” Her words were filled with shame, heat rising to her cheeks. It was absurd to be embarrassed in front of Jon, but she couldn’t help it.

Arya was pointedly staring out the window, avoiding Jon’s eyes. She felt him grow as still as the pools in the godswood, the only sign of life in his slow and deep breaths. Anger rolled off his skin in waves, crashing into her like violent tides. Involuntarily, she shrank into his side, his arm still flung around her. The smell of cinnamon clung to his tunic and she buried her face into his chest to inhale it deeply. The turbulence of her heart immediately calmed as the scent filled her senses.

“They shouldn’t speak to you like that,” he said flatly, his hand stroking her hair absently. “It isn’t right.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she squeaked, her voice muffled from where her face was hidden in his tunic. It always fascinated her how warm Jon was all the time, heat seeping from his skin like summer rays. She pressed further in, wanting to forget the whole situation. Perhaps if she could melt into him, be a part of him, Sansa would never say anything mean to her again. Her sister was always quiet whenever Jon was around, and this way, he’d always be with her. They’d be bonded at the hip, like Father said they were. Forever and ever and ever. The image brightened Arya’s mood impossibly.

“Arya, look at me,” she heard Jon mutter into her hair. She hesitated briefly, before lifting her head. Twin orbs of grey burned into hers, fierce and protective and filled with love, like silver molten fire.

He trapped her face between his hands, his thumb swiping away the last of her tears gently. “Never listen to them, they have no idea what they’re talking about,” he began, his brow furrowing. He was silent for a moment, before suddenly saying, “Do you know how long it takes to grow a winter rose?”

She shook her head, bemused at the sudden subject change.

He tapped her softly on the nose, and a chuckle escaped her lips. “It can take moons for it to bloom, but when it does, it’s the rarest and most beautiful flower of all. You’re already a winter rose to me, Arya. It’s only a matter of time until the rest of the world sees it too.” Jon gave her a brilliant, sparkling smile then and she felt the edges of her mouth tug upwards in response, throwing her arms around her favourite person eagerly.

His words settled soothingly against her skin, like the autumn’s breeze, and she let herself dance in its wind, awash with love and the delicate scent of cinnamon and everything that Jon Snow was made of.

 

 

iii.

Arya angrily threw a dress into the chest beside Nymeria, rage burning endlessly in her heart like wildfire in a forest.

It was just so unfair! So what if her clothes were all crumpled - it’s not like anything inside was precious to her. Septa Mordane hated her and wanted to see her suffer, Arya was sure of it. And now she’d miss Jon leaving and she wasn’t sure when she’d see him again and oh, she hoped he didn’t think she’d forgotten to say goodbye! The thought was a lump in her throat, heavy and filled with despair.

The subtle click of a door closing had Nymeria bounding off the bed and jumping towards their newest guest, keenly licking their hands and yelping in excitement.

“Nymeria, shh!” Jon desperately tried quietening the eager pup. “I’m not supposed to be in here! Do you want to get rid of me so quickly?”

As if in understanding, Nymeria immediately sat on her hunches and whined, earning a scratch behind her ears.

“That’s a good girl,” Jon cooed.

“Jon!” Arya exclaimed, skipping happily towards him, not unlike her wolf moments earlier. She launched herself into his arms and buried her face into his neck. “I thought you’d already left!”

He laughed, the rumbling sound sending vibrations through her. “Like I’d ever leave without seeing my favourite girl.”

The words doused her anger with whispered winds and cool tides, until she was awash with the serenity of a sea, of cinnamon smells, and of Jon Snow. She reveled in it briefly, swaying with the tides and riding the winds higher and higher until -

Until she realized this was supposed to be goodbye.

The mightiest of falls and the turbulence of anxious waves: she snapped back to reality. Pulling back, Arya looked unhappily into the stones of his eyes, a mirror of hers. They always looked alike. He was her other half, the moon to her sun, the ice to her fire. She couldn’t imagine being separated from him, and it hurt all the more for it.

What was one half without the other, after all? Incomplete, and alone.

“I don’t want us to leave Winterfell. Can’t we stay here forever?” she mumbled, sniffling softly. She brushed away a tear quickly.

She was still wrapped in Jon’s arms, so he set her down gently and sat on his knees so he was at eye-level. Arya tried memorizing the lines of his face, the odd sprinkle of freckles near his nose, the wisps of brown curls falling into his kind eyes. And cinnamon, clinging to his skin like dew on a lily, filling her world and carving itself into her skin, into her heart. She couldn’t forget this - she couldn’t forget him.

“We have to go, little wolf,” Jon said in a low voice, like a secret just for her. “But different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. We’ll meet again, I’m sure of it.” He reached up and tapped her on the nose, sealing his promise forever.

She didn’t smile. “How sure can you be?”

His face cracked into a grin, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “So long as you don’t forget me, my winter rose, I know it as well as my own name. And I have presents for you to make sure you never do.”

Arya suddenly noticed a long slim package on the floor beside him, and one hand hiding behind his back. The fear that gripped her heart relented momentarily, making room for a surge of excitement as she reached for the gifts keenly.

“Oi, not so fast!” Jon laughed, pulling them back just beyond her fingertips. “Close your eyes first.”

Arya grumbled in annoyance, but shut up quickly after an insistent look. With a huff, she squeezed her eyes so tightly, a thousand stars erupted behind her eyelids in a kaleidoscope of colours. She watched them with bated breath as she felt fingers soothingly in her hair, tucking something behind her ears.

“Okay, now open. Go look in the mirror.”

Jon’s face came into view, beaming proudly at her. She flashed him a rapid smile before sprinting towards her mirror to see her new present, the anticipation clawing at her.

There, amidst the warm browns of her hair and nestled as if it had always belonged, sat a winter rose. The shimmering blues of its petals glimmered in the light like diamonds of ice, a frozen whirlwind of stars twining around the strands. It was in full blossom, its arms spreading around as if in prayer, a sacrifice to nature in all its stunning glory. Arya was transfixed.

“Oh, Jon,” she sighed. “It’s-“

“Beautiful. Like you,” he said, coming up behind her and winking at her through the mirror. “I figured it might be a while until you’d see this flower again. It looks good on you, little wolf,” he added, reaching over her shoulder to adjust it.

Tears filled her eyes, appreciation for the bastard boy beside her thickening her throat. In a flash, she was buried into his chest, her arms locked around him and grasping at his tunic. A cage she’d never let him escape from, if she could.

“Hey now,” he cooed at her, stroking her hair soothingly. “I haven’t even given you your other present. Don’t thank me just yet,” Jon chuckled to himself. With a sigh, she untangled from him immediately, promising herself she’d lock him in her arms the moment after he gave her his final gift.

She wished she’d never let go.

A winter rose and a needle of her very own. Arya finally did have something precious to pack after all.

 

 

iv.

The castle towered before her, casting long shadows that ensnared the world around it in its dark cloak. Fingers pointed towards the heavens, breaking through the wispy clouds clinging desperately to the tips as it reached higher and higher until it was amongst the stars themselves. Challenging, Arya thought.

_Winterfell is still here,_ it sang. _We have survived._

_And so have I,_ she sang back.

She pulled her horse to a stop and let the scene sink in, let the stinging scent of winter rest on her tongue and the overwhelming presence of home bury its way into her heart. Winterfell was just beyond her fingertips - all she had to was reach out and grab it and never let it go.

Arya Stark was home, at last.

Hope, that long slumbering part of her, awakened and clawed its way through her chest. With a breathless laugh, she urged her horse to trot, to canter, to gallop towards the castle. It was not fast enough, nothing could be fast enough. The wind whipped through her hair, caressing her skin in encouragement. _You’re almost there,_ it said. _Keep going._

The sight of a guard emerging from the gates had her pulling the reins to a hard stop. Her chest was heaving, not from exhaustion but the sheer exhilaration of _almost_. She peered at the guard curiously, his face half hidden in shadow, the other half staring at her in distrust under the soft lantern light. He was hardly older than her, a greenboy with innocence lining his pale face. She resisted shaking her head. Hardly enough to guard the gates of Winterfell, but perhaps all the North had left. It was a sobering thought. He made a motion for her to dismount.

“What is your business here, girl?” the guard asked cautiously when she stood before him. “We don’t take no strangers here. Winter Town be that way if you be needin’ a place to sleep tonight.” He waved absently somewhere behind her.

Arya raised her head and proudly said the words that had been waiting on her tongue for years. “I’m not a stranger. My name is Arya Stark, and I’ve come home.” A wave of giddiness passed through her and she fought to swallow her smile. “Please tell King Jon that I’d like to see him.”

She expected the guard to step aside then, to welcome her home and say “we’ve missed you,” with a hand on her shoulder. Instead, he growled at her angrily.

“Arya Stark is dead,” he grunted through gritted teeth, advancing on her with a hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes glittered like black beads in the moonlight, filled with disgust. “How dare you use her name to speak to our King! Begone or I’ll have you thrown in the cells for your insolence!”

If she hadn’t been so shocked at his first words, she might have challenged him to try.

_Arya Stark is dead._ The thought sent chills through her, icicles that pricked at her heart with each syllable. Is that what her family believed? Is that what Jon believed? That she was lying somewhere in the world, rotting and lost and alone? She inhaled a shuddering breath.

“Didn’t you hear me, girl?” The guard snapped, taking another step closer. “I said, go!”

No, she wanted to scream back. I was lost. I was alone. But I survived. I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am a direwolf, unbroken and untamed. I am not dead, yet.

With a steel resolve, she turned back to the guard, who wavered the moment she looked him directly in the eye. She drew strength from that, from the snow under her feet and the scent of pine needles in the air. From the home of her ancestors and the home of her sigil. She let it wash over her like soft ocean waves on a summer day.

From somewhere beyond, a chorus of wolves howled in the night, one stronger than the rest that sang to the beat of Arya’s heart.

No, Arya Stark was still very much alive.

“I won’t tell you again,” she finally said to the unsettled guard, who kept peering into the blackness towards the increasingly loud wolves. Her voice was iron, stronger than the throne itself. “Move, or you will be moved. I will see the King, is that understood?”

The boy opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, fear prickling in his eyes. He seemed to deliberate for a moment, before stepping back to pound at the gate. Immediately, the doors swung open, and he scurried away, as quickly as his legs would take him.

Arya sighed softly. She really ought to speak to someone about the security at Winterfell. She hadn’t so much as reached for her weapons, for Gods’ sakes.

The small annoyance evaporated when her eyes latched onto the courtyard entrance, a lifetime since she’d seen it last.

With quivering legs, she stepped forward, and back into the past.

It was entirely empty, save for the scars that refused to let her forget what happened. It was everywhere: seeped into the cracks, the lashes of burnt wood, the eeriness of its silence where once it had been full of life, full of warmth. It was Winterfell, but it wasn’t.

Either way, Arya felt a wave of relief overcome her, like that moment when that first drop of water falls on your tongue after a long and searing hot summer’s day. Or running into your mother’s embrace and the sense of security that followed. She took it in greedily.

So consumed by her thoughts was she, Arya almost didn’t notice that she was no longer alone.

Whipping her head around, her breath caught in her throat when she saw a shadowy figure approach her hesitantly from the side. They seemed almost afraid, fear in every step like they half-expected her to disappear. Like she was but a ghost in the moonlight.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum, each beat ringing in her ears like a call for war. Or perhaps something else just as passionate, just as consuming.

The figure was taking eternity to emerge from the darkness, and Arya twitched in anticipation. She’d waited a lifetime to find him. She could not be asked to wait a moment longer.

It took a moment, a lifetime, an eternity, but he finally was there.

Jon.

She didn’t know when she started running, or when he caught her, but suddenly they were in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughs and ‘ _You’re here.’_ Arya wrapped herself around him so tightly, melting into him like candle wax, until nothing - not even Jon himself - would be able to pry them apart. She could feel rather than hear his fervent mutterings from where he was buried in her hair, the low vibrations coursing through her and lighting her blood on fire.

And cinnamon. Oh, that sweet scent! It kissed her senses and raised her up in its delicate arms in an embrace and she thought she’d never smell anything so wonderful and Jon Jon Jon.

For a blissful moment, nothing seemed real. Not the loss, not the pain, not the anger. None of it mattered, nothing but this, as rare and precious and beautiful as it was.

As Jon pressed her tighter against him and rained kisses down on her face, and the world receded until all she saw was Snow, she thought of winter roses in bloom. Of nature’s perfection and that flash of wonder, where not even the brightest star could compare to its loveliness. If she had to think of winter roses, she would think of this.

It could have a minute or a century when Jon finally pulled back to trap her face between his hands. Arya had her chance to really see him, mesmerized was she by his pale skin, the new scars on his face and love, so much love pouring from his eyes she thought she might drown. This was Jon, her other half, the stars to her night. They knew each other anywhere.

“Gods, I’ve missed you,” they said at the same time, breaking out into breathless laughter. Like always.

He bit his lip and stroked her face, still in complete disbelief. “Look at you,” he said softly, his eyes roving hungrily over her face. “You’ve grown up. You’re so beautiful. I’ve missed so much.”

His words lit a fire in her heart where she’d long thought barren with cold. Turning her head to press a kiss to his palm, she reached up to place a hand on his cheek. “You won’t miss anymore. We’re home, Jon.”

Perhaps winter roses were not enough to describe the wonder of this moment, nor the radiance of his smile. Arya didn’t think the universe had created anything perfect enough, except for this.

 

 

v.

“Sansa,” groaned Arya impatiently, “Please tell me you’re finished. This is taking forever!” She fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” her sister replied with an eye roll. “If you stopped complaining so much, I’d be done a lot faster! Now hush, I just need to fix this last piece here....and there! Was that so hard?” Sansa stepped back and gazed proudly over her work. “You can look in the mirror now!”

With a deep sigh, Arya rose from her place at the table and meandered towards the mirror standing in the corner of her chambers. She didn’t see what the big deal was, truly. It was just a feast, even if all the Lords of the land would be present to celebrate the end of the Long Night. Not worth a fuss at all. But Sansa seemed to think otherwise, ripping into her solar that morning like a fiery whirlwind, scrubbing and poking and prodding at her like a doll. Perhaps once it would have been her greatest nightmare, though Sansa would have hardly had offered back then.

But something had shifted since the sisters had found one another. Arya didn’t mind Sansa’s nitpicking, nor her frustrations over her wardrobe. It reminded her too much of Mother, and there was so little left of her in the castle, Arya clung onto the memories desperately. It was all they had left. That and each other.

So resolving herself that she’d compliment Sansa no matter what she saw in her reflection, Arya braced herself and stepped in front of the mirror.

Her eyes widened as she took in the soft sapphire silk wrapped around her figure, shimmering like winter roses cascading to the floor. Perhaps the most impressive feat was the tangle of hair drawn into an elegant braid that tucked over her head, like a crown of earth for a nymph of the forest. Arya shook her head of such fanciful thoughts.

“Sansa, this is -“ she began, shocked.

“Beautiful!” her sister chirped happily beside her, clapping her hands together. “Oh Arya, you look wonderful! Doesn’t the blue match magnificently with your eyes? And did you notice the lace? It’s Myrish! I picked it out myself, you know. We really must make an impression tonight!” Sansa babbled in excitement, her fingers fluttering all over Arya, picking wayward strands and smoothing unseen wrinkles.

She bit her lip to swallow a jape at her sister’s enthusiasm, instead choosing to relish this moment of seeing Sansa unreserved and in her element. She was dressed in breathtaking cyan, her hair falling down her back like a fiery sunset, fierce and thick and enchanting. Arya couldn’t understand how she could possibly make an impression standing beside her sister while she looked like _that_ , but she found herself enjoying Sansa’s compliments just the same.

A knock on the door interrupted Sansa’s rambles about struggling to find colourful materials in the heart of winter - “Really, must we dress like the skies outside? For heavens’ sake, a little colour never hurt anyone!” - and the sisters turned to find Bran wheeling himself in, smiling when he caught their eyes.

“Just checking in,” he said, folding his hands over his lap. “The feast is starting soon, and Jon suggested we run over our speeches one more time together before the guests arrive.” He chuckled to himself. “I think he’s a little nervous.”

“Well, he should be!” Sansa exclaimed, fixing her hair in the mirror. “This is a pivotal moment in history for all the realm, to be together under our roof. Not to mention all the young, unmarried Lords in attendance.” She looked pointedly at her sister.

Arya snorted, ignoring the jab with a roll of her eyes. If any man so much tried to touch her, she’d geld him with one of the seven daggers hiding under her dress, history be damned.

“Sister, you look beautiful,” Bran said, changing the subject swiftly. “You’ll definitely turn heads tonight.”

Arya shifted under his warm gaze, uncomfortable with the image. She’d lived for years in the shadows, melding into the background until she was but a wisp of herself. The idea of suddenly being subjected to the greedy stares of so many had her resisting the urge to find a dark room somewhere and hide.

“Thank you, Bran,” she said instead, returning his smile. “It’s really not anything special.”

“Nothing special?” squeaked Sansa, whipping around to face her. “Arya, look at you! I bet Lord Baratheon won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.” She gave Arya a coy smile. “Or his hands, if he’s feeling bold enough.”

“Or if he’s feeling suicidal, I should think. Lord Baratheon knows better than to disrespect a Princess of the North,” an icy voice cut through Arya’s indignant splutter. The three Stark children turned to see Jon wander into the room, adjusting the cuffs of his tunic as he surveyed them with a raised eyebrow. He opened his mouth to say more, until his eyes latched onto Arya, and all words were forgotten swiftly.

An uncomfortable stirring in her gut flared under his scrutiny, so intense and burning was his stare she half-expected herself to be set on fire. A warm flush rose to her cheeks and she found it difficult to look at him. Honestly, from all their expressions, she’s wondered how awful she must seem daily that they’d reacted this dramatically!

“Arya,” Jon began in a strangled voice, “You look-“

“Beautiful, I know. Can we move on?” she muttered impatiently. “I thought we had a feast to attend.”

Jon didn’t reply, still fixated on her.

When no one made a move and the silence grew unbearably heavy, Arya launched herself off the wall she’d been leaning against and waltzed towards the door. “Well, if everyone is done cooing over me like a pup, I’d very much like to get this feast over with,” she said over her shoulder, moving to pass Jon standing in the doorway.

She barely made it a few metres before a hand grasped at her wrist, pulling her to a stop. Arya turned to gaze up at Jon, who looked as distinctly uncomfortable as she’d seen him in a long time.

“You aren’t really going to dance with Gendry Baratheon, are you?” Jon said hesitantly. “Sansa was just japing about the suitors, you don’t have to meet any of them if you don’t want to.”

Arya raised an eyebrow and studied him closely. He tried playing nonchalant, but she could see the thin vein throbbing in his forehead whenever he was restraining his fury. Interesting.

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” she replied coyly with a shrug. “Of course, I’d find it decidedly difficult to meet the other Lords if I was sufficiently entertained.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, but by the sudden spark in Jon’s eyes, she had the feeling she was about to find out.

 

 

vi.

It took a moment, but suddenly, the feast became unbearable.

Amongst the sparkling lanterns and the rowdy cheers of rambunctiousness ringing through the air, Arya suddenly found herself unable to breathe. The walls were closing in on her, bit by bit, creeping along the floor like spiders itching for a bite. She’d look around and all she’d see were the white of the walls and the white of the ceiling, white as death, white as bones, white white white. The music, once so joyous, suddenly crawled along her skin, a funeral beat taunting her with its countdown.

A flash, the sound of a laugh, and she’d recall those cold nights huddled in the mud in Harrenhall, surrounded by bantering strangers she’d never know when they’d take special interest in the skinny child beside them. Another flash, the tinkling of glass, and she’d be falling through a window, shards pricking her hands until they bled as she blocked another blow. Another escape from the claws of death.

One moment, but that was all it took for Arya these days.

She stood up suddenly from the table, ignoring the questioning looks of Sansa at her side, and sprinted towards the nearest door. She barely caught the call of her sister, until it was drowned under waves of panic as the bustle of voices of the feast dissolved into another sort of bustle, like an angry crowd calling for an innocent man’s head.

Arya slapped her hands on either side of her head and internally screamed, _shut up shut up shut UP!_

She didn’t know where she was running, and she didn’t really care. She just knew she needed a breath of silence, a moment alone with just her and the world around her to remember where she was. Here, in the present, and not trapped in the past. Here, where she was safe. Here was all that mattered.

Opening her eyes, Arya found herself somewhere in the godswood, surrounded by bouquets of budding winter roses. It wasn’t the season for them to flourish just yet, but in another few moons, Winterfell would be overcome by shades of sapphire and a sweet tangy scent, the promise of spring.

She reached out and stroked one flower delicately, marveling at the softness. It helped, touching the nature around her. In this, she could ground herself, anchor her heart to its stems and its leaves and pretend to be like any other flower. Becoming a part of Winterfell’s landscape, to grow and die and relive once more, but never too far from home. She didn’t think she’d mind that so much.

Twigs snapped behind her, and the smell of cinnamon reached her long before he did.

“I just need a minute, Jon,” she called over her shoulder, still facing the roses. “I’ll be back at the feast in no time, there was no need to come fetch me.”

She heard him snort. “I couldn’t care less about the feast, Arya. I wanted to see you.”

That made her turn. Arya looked over at him, tall and dark and impenetrable. He fits in this picture, she mused absently, like an old friend to these ancient trees. Like he’s always belonged here, amongst nature and its mysteries. Jon was already a part of Winterfell’s landscape, it seemed.

“Well I’m here,” she finally said after a heartbeat’s silence.

“Yes. You are,” Jon replied simply, awe threaded in his voice.

The scent of roses and cinnamon clung desperately to the air, ensnaring her and Jon in its clutches, forging a bond between the two. He stepped closer to her then, stopping when he was but an arm’s reach away.

He stood and watched her briefly, before smiling at her. He glanced up. She followed his gaze.

A thousand, no, a million stars erupted in chorus above them, gleaming jewels in a myriad of colours that winked mischievously at the two of them, daring them to join.

If only I could, I’d never be alone.

_But you aren’t alone. Not ever again._

Sighing softly, she reached out a hand towards Jon, palm extended towards the heavens. He grasped it without second thought.

“I don’t feel like I’m here,” Arya confessed, her eyes locked on their joined hands. “It feels like a part of me is still trapped somewhere in the past and I can’t break it free. It’s...frightening.” The last word emerged as a whisper, a secret, her greatest truth.

He took several moments to answer, dwelling on her words and letting it soak in the air until it was saturated with her fear.

A gentle tug pulled her closer to him, until there was hardly a hair between them.

“I can’t promise that you’ll ever feel complete,” Jon began, apologetically, the hand not tangled with hers reaching up to frame her face. “And I don’t want to, because I can never lie to you, Arya. But I can promise that it gets easier, and that hole feels a little less daunting each day.” He leant in and kissed her softly on her forehead. Instead of leaning away, he spoke against her skin, “And I’ll be here every step of the way, my winter rose. You’ll never be alone again.”

The endearment raised a lump in her throat, and tears pricked the edges of her eyes. Pulling back, she gazed at this face that had been carved into her skin and her heart since the day he’d first smiled at her, all those years ago. Whose memory she had safeguarded and warmed her during her coldest and most bitter nights. That was hers, now and forever.

But somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, in places she locked away only to open in the darkest of moments, a thought burst into the light and she was suddenly whispering, “Can a winter rose still be beautiful even after it’s been ripped apart?”

Jon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to, for she saw the answer in his eyes, in the warmth of his hands, in the simmering scent of cinnamon. In this great dewdrop of a moment, he could never have been louder, his words flying through the abyss of her heart whilst the stars above in the sky, in his smile, all sang together in one grand symphony. Here, in this infinite storm of beauty, in his silence, she found the greatest truth he’d ever given her.

_You are broken, flawed and definitively imperfect. And you are beautiful._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts!


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